It’s not a heartache you wear on your sleeve,
but a weight you carry in your soul.
And when people ask how you are,
You don’t tell them you’re drowning from the inside-out,
weighed down by grief’s steady pull.
Because explaining is asking for recognition that
your shattered insides trump their missed trains,
and yes, of course,
your suffering is deeper than the sorrow of their mundane.
But you don’t want the pity or recognition,
you don’t want to be hailed for pushing onward.
You just want to breathe
and not feel your lungs fill with water
or sulfur or lead.
Because here’s the thing about the living,
They apologize for holes they did not dig,
lives they did not shatter.
The emptiness cannot be filled by words,
Because they are too weak
To reach the dead.